


Under the Eyes of the Seven

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:26:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10612086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Viserys brings Ser Jorah along to witness the night of Dany and Drogo's wedding.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why but this idea just popped into my head. Please look at the warnings before reading.

“Pretty, isn’t she?”

Jorah could not help but nod as his eyes traveled over his new princess. They skimmed over her long silver hair, glinting in a setting sun the same color of her violet eyes. A thin sheen of sweat coated her pale shoulders after a long day at the wedding feast, dripping down to form beads that disappeared beneath tops of her breasts.

“ _Beautiful_ ,” he breathed out. His head whipped to the side to see a smirk stretched across Viserys’s thin lips. “Your grace,” he added with a cough, cursing himself for being so careless with the young king. He had only known the siblings for a day—he would not, _could not_ , afford to offend either one. The exiled Jorah Mormont had nowhere else to go.

            Viserys clapped him on the back and let out a chuckle. “You are right, Ser Jorah. Pretty does not begin to describe my sister.” He raised his hand slightly off Jorah’s shoulder to point at Daenerys. “Do you see that as well, Ser?”

            Their gazes returned to the princess—her eyes were half-shut, a pained expression painted over her fine features. His eyes traveled lower beneath the table to see her new husband’s hand massaging her thigh. With the other, Khal Drogo absently ran his hand over her waist and back. His deep brown eyes grew darker as he stared down at his little bride.

            “I may not know much of Dothraki customs, but even I know what that means,” the prince whispered in his ear. “The feast is over.”

            And sure enough, all around them the dark-haired Dothraki slaves began clearing away licked-clean wooden plates, whisking empty drinking horns out of sight. Before Jorah could say another word, Drogo rose to his feet, his hand clamped firmly on Daenerys’s upper arm. The slaves jumped from his path as the other Dothraki cheered and banged their fists on the table. Jorah wondered if he alone could see the fear etched across the bride’s face.

            Beside him, Viserys too had risen to his feet. “Well come along then,” he said, a coy smile on his face.

            “Your grace?”

            Viserys’s smile only grew wider, and his purple eyes flashed in the sky’s golden light. “You’ll see.”

 

            The prince had led him away from the festivities of camp, down a rocky path closer to the calm waters of the Narrow Sea. Now the two men crouched in the sand beneath a boulder. They waited.

            Just as Jorah’s annoyance at the prince’s antics began to bubble up, two figures emerged in the clearing before them. Drogo led Daenerys into the center of the circle. Even from where they stood, Jorah could see the tears running down her cheeks, could hear her pleas of _no, no, no_.

            Jorah turned to his king, unable to control the disgust contorting his face. “I will not watch this,” he said in a low voice, eyeing the clearing to make sure the Khal had not heard. Now the Dothraki warrior was circling his bride, touching an arm there, rubbing a hip there. All the while, Daenerys cried. Jorah’s stomach churned.

            “Oh you will,” the king shot back. “I saw the way you looked at my sister. At least this way you’re going to enjoy it.” Viserys suddenly turned, sliding his back down the boulder to sit in the sand. He clasped his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. “And I want you to describe it to me.”

            Jorah grunted. “I will not do such a thing—”

            Viserys’s eyes flew open. They blazed like violet flames. “You will, or I’ll have your head. Is that what you want, Ser Jorah? To lose that ugly head of yours for such a silly reason as disobeying your king? Now look up, and tell me what you see.”

            What was he supposed to do? Kill the king right here and now? Jorah was smart enough to know how stupid that plan was. He had no idea what his fate—and the fate of the young princess—would be without this so-called dragon king. Besides, Jorah was an old enough and experienced enough man to be able to control himself in such a disgusting situation. He had to be.

            His eyes returned to the clearing. They shut. Jorah took a deep breath.

            “Well go on then, this brute can’t last too long.”

            His eyes opened. “He’s…he’s taking off her dress.”

            “Taking it off?”

            Jorah ground his teeth. Drogo grabbed a fistful of silk and tore it from its metal clasp. Then he reached around, took another fistful, and tore it down the princess’s torso. “Ripping it,” he whispered.

            “Is it off?”

            Jorah nodded, unable to speak. In the warm glow of the setting sun, every inch of Daenerys’s body was exposed to the sea-scented air. Small breasts rose from pale white skin, her nipples hidden by the arms now clinging to her chest, covering herself. A small waist flared out to the curve of still-narrow hips—it was this that now held the Khal’s fascination as he circled her, mumbling something Jorah could not hear.

            Beside him, Viserys let out a deep breath of satisfaction. “Ah, so you’ve caught a glimpse of my sweet sister’s cunt.”

            As he had. Nestled between milky-white thighs was a tangle of the same silver hair that crowned her head. Jorah felt himself twitch at the sight of those tight little curls, and immediately he cursed himself.

            “I…I cannot go on, Your Grace.” He stared down at the king just as a louder sob drifted over to where they were.

            Viserys simply smirked. “Oh, but you must. It’s just about to get good.”

            Jorah dragged his gaze back over the rock. “The Khal is pushing the princess to her knees. He…he has his hands on her breasts.”

            “What’s he doing to them?”

            Jorah swallowed the lump in his throat. “He’s massaging them. Kneading them.” In reality what the Khal was doing was much rougher—his huge hands covered each of the girl’s breasts completely, squeezing the soft flesh, molding them beneath his calloused fingers. Jorah knew it would leave a mark.

            “Hmp,” Viserys muttered from his spot against the rock. “Who knew savages needed anything other than a girl’s cunt?”

            Jorah rolled his eyes. “His hands are on her arse now,” he whispered. Drogo’s palms cupped her behind, fingers digging in, then sliding over to her hips. The Khal straightened, still on his knees. He took one hand off her hips to ready himself. “About to…”

            The princesses’ sharp yelp of pain cut through the warm air.

            Bile rose in Jorah’s mouth. He turned and stared at the prince, trying to control his breathing. “Please, do not…I cannot describe this any longer.”

            Viserys opened one eye. He huffed, then rolled back onto his knees. “Fine, then,” he muttered. “But every of the seven gods will watch as you continue to look on. That is, if you want to keep your life. Now watch.”

            Jorah turned back around. His life was the one thing he was not ready to lose.

            _Slap, slap, slap._ The Khal slammed his engorged member into the poor girl, flesh smacking flesh, drowning out her whimpers. With one hand he pressed her head into the sand, with the other he had an iron grip on her hips, pulling her back and forth, back and forth against himself. Breasts that had been so firm upright now bounced as her body was shoved forward and backward. Pert pink nipples swayed against her tousled silver locks. Each grunt that rose into the evening air seemed to stab at Jorah’s ears.

            But despite himself, Jorah felt himself growing hard. He shut his eyes.

            “Imagine what those feel like,” the prince whispered in his ear. His voice cut through the Khal’s grunts, smooth and dangerous as the silk of a woman’s gown. Hot breath tickled the hair curling at the nape of his neck. Jorah stifled a moan. “The breasts of the most beautiful girl in the world, all for your own hands. Her virgin’s wet slit that grips you harder than you thought possible…walls that clench around you as you find your release in the softness of her flesh. You _own_ her.”

            _I own her_.

            A scream filled the air. The Khal had finished.

            Jorah’s eyes flew open, and he flung himself onto the ground with his back to the hard rock. His ribs were too small, his chest felt like it would burst—his _breeches_ felt like they would burst. Quickly, Jorah dropped a hand over his crotch, but the king’s smirk let Jorah know that he had seen.

            “I—I can’t do this,” Jorah stuttered, trying to calm his rapid breathing, his racing heart. “I have things to do—I can’t be here…”

            Viserys crouched above him, tilting his smirking face to one side. “That’s right, Ser Jorah. What _are_ you even doing out here, ogling my _fourteen_ year old sister getting fucked by some savage? Don’t you have some whores to tend to and horses to fuck? Or…is it the other way around?”

            Contempt. That was the only thing Jorah hoped this monster of a king could see on his face.

            Viserys gave his stubbled cheek two sharp pats. “Off you go, old man.,” he whispered, eyes the hand covering Jorah’s crotch. And just like that, the dragon king rose to his feet and took off down the stony path.

            Jorah bit back every curse he knew, then checked the clearing once more before rising to his feet. Daenerys and Khal Drogo were gone—the only signs of what had taken place were the spots of crimson in the sand and the unexplainable chill that now hovered in the salty air. Those, and the hardness dying for release in his breeches.

           

            As Jorah stumbled back along the path, he let the sounds of the Dothraki night fill his ears. Louder and louder they grew as he neared his tent. Singing and drinking and fighting and fucking. No one would be able to hear him tonight.

            Jorah prayed the Seven would keep their ears away from his tent tonight as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and let me know if you enjoyed it! Should I write a part two?


End file.
